There and Back Again - A Hunter's Tale by Arthur Winchester
by Arseneau
Summary: Tuesday 13th November 1900. Arthur was the first Winchester to join the Men of Letters. But he's about to break the rules, and go against the Men of Letters code. Should he abandon a case, when his every instinct tells him there's something more going on? Then again, when do the Winchesters ever abide by the rules? (A lot of OC, pre-canon)
1. Zusammen

Arthur rubbed his hand over his eyes. He cursed silently, moving the papers around in front of him; that was the third time he had fallen asleep at his desk this week. He dropped the pile on the left side, drawing his eyes over the large drawing room. It was all shades of oak, the panels on the ceiling betraying the age of the building. Arthur drew himself up from the hard chair, pulling up his braces and striding over to the left-hand window, throwing open the curtains.

It was a beautiful November morning. The sun ran over the streets, coloring the entire neighborhood in a yellow tinge. Even though winter had dug its claws deep into Lawrence, the city was still beautiful. Arthur smiled at that thought, pushing his deep brown hair out of his eyes.

Henry had kept on at him about it, trying to force him to get it cut. He had said it wasn't professional. Arthur scoffed, since when had they ever been considered professional.

He pulled a file off the top of the pile that had accumulated itself on his desk the day before. Another day, another case. Another monster to fight and another ass to kick. And all before breakfast.

Arthur strode over to his chair, pulling on his suit jacket. He picked up his tie off the wardrobe handle where he had tossed it the night before and grabbed his overcoat and hat from the back of the door. He surveyed the room once over, before exiting into the long corridor.

Arthur was almost so quick out of the door, he didn't notice Henry stood right in front of him. Henry Greener had been his partner for going on five years now, ever since Arthur had joined. He had a slighter build than Arthur, with neat, cropped, fair hair compared with Arthur's unruly dark mane and was older than the Winchester by about four months. His smile lit up his hazel eyes, and it was that smile that greeted Arthur as he stepped out of his door on that Tuesday morning.

"You're late, Winchester." Henry fell in step beside Arthur, "Driver wasn't gonna wait, so he told me to come up, and I said, I ain't your butler. You're mine, so do your damn job!" Arthur laughed at the disgruntled tone in Henry's voice that had risen during his rant. It was so typically Henry, to rant about something - _anything_ \- and then just stare at Arthur. By the sound of things, the staring in silence had already begun by the time he was wrenched out of his thoughts.

He looked down to his left (as Henry was also about a foot shorter than Arthur) and his suspicions were confirmed, "What?"

Henry looked down at his feet, "Nothing."

Arthur laughed, "What, Henry?"

Henry looked nearly fit to burst when he finally exploded, "Why are you here?"

Arthur laughed again, "With the Men of Letters? Henry…"

"You know that's not what I mean. Why ain't you with Lucy, with Morgan and Charles, you should go see your family."

Arthur shook his head and Henry smiled, "What, Arthur?"

Arthur looked at his partner, "I don't want them in this. They're better off if they don't know."

"And you'd be better off if they did know. Hard secret to keep, Arthur."

"I know, Henry, I know. Let's just get to the car."


	2. Sind

An hour and a half later, the black Madelvic pulled up outside of the Men of Letter's offices. Henry jumped out immediately, scolding his attendant for not pulling down the step. Arthur raised an eyebrow at his partner, but said nothing. Together, they entered the Men of Letter's headquarters.

Of course, you and I know what a large outfit the Men of Letters was, and consequently, you or I would have assumed that their headquarters would be large, with offices and dens of conspiracy stretching as far as the eye could see. But there was nothing of that nature here. In fact, the office that Henry and Arthur shared, was hardly large enough for one desk, and so they spent most of their time working out of their Lawrence apartments, and the other offices were much the same. There was one window in the corner, shedding light into the dismal room, whose walls were lined with faded white wallpaper. The only form of solace in the harsh winters that graced Manhattan, was the large stove that seemed to take up half of the room.

Arthur handed the file he had picked up from his desk to Henry and sank into the armchair by the, already roaring, fire. They sat in silence for a few moments, Henry absorbed in the file he was studying, Arthur gazing into the fire.

"A demon?" It was Henry who broke the silence first.

Arthur sighed and leaned forward, placing his head on his hands, "Probably."

Henry placed the file on the arm of his chair, "What is it, if it's not a demon?"

Arthur looked into his partner's eyes, "There are a thousand and one things out there that we don't understand yet, Henry, and any one of those things could be killing people."

"It looks like a demon. Right kinda markings and everything."

"I ain't saying it ain't a demon, Henry, I'm just saying we need to keep our minds open." Arthur slung the overcoat over the back of his chair and made for the door, grabbing the file on his way out, "I'm gonna go ask around, see if Eric has found anything."

Arthur Winchester and Eric Harris had been friends since high school. It was Eric, who with some, not so gentle, persuasion from Henry had convinced Arthur to join the Men of Letters. Eric had been there for Arthur through thick and thin, and when Arthur and Lucy had named their children Morgan and Charles Eric Winchester, the tears had flown thick and fast.

Arthur walked up to his CO's office and knocked on the door. Eric motioned for the Winchester to come in, his frown turning to a smile when he saw who it was, "Arthur, what can I do you for?"

Arthur handed him the file, "Case, Eric. Thought you might have a look."

Eric flicked through the file, "Looks like a demon to me, Arthur. So, what do you think it is?" Eric's thoughtful blue eyes surveyed his fellow member. Arthur frowned, which caused Eric to crack another smile, "Come on, Arthur, you wouldn't have brought it to me if it was that simple."

"It doesn't feel right."

Eric laughed, "That gut feeling o' yours?"

Eric and Henry had come to rely on Arthur's instincts ever since that incident with the Tulpa. Both of the older men had been convinced that the monster their trained hunters were following was a ghost, but Arthur had been sure. They had never doubted him since.

"I don't know, Eric, just something about it makes me uneasy."

"You're almost always uneasy, my friend. Just go tell the hunters what they need to know, and they'll be on their way. Speaking of which, Michael and Will should be at the gate if you want to meet them." Arthur turned to the door, "Oh, and Arthur…" He turned back and Eric was smiling at him mischievously, "Don't let them take the car again, they'll run circles around us this time."

Eric had been perfectly right, as always, Arthur thought, as he made his way out into the courtyard. Michael and William Harcourt were sat on the fence, wolf-whistling at girls as they walked by. Michael was the older of the two by three years, and about Arthur's height. He was a rough young man, with a scar that stretched across his right cheek. It was said that he had gotten into a fight to save his girl (obviously missing out that the offender was a ghost). William was about 20, at that stage in life where a person is neither a boy nor a man, the sharp lines beginning to be etched out on his youthful face. He was slightly smaller than Michael, but was by far the cleverer of the two.

And by that measure, of course, it was Will's keen, shockingly gold, eyes that made Arthur out first. He jumped down from the wall, taking care to land perfectly on the gravel. Michael, however, was nowhere near as careful and landed perfectly on his rear. Arthur stifled a chuckle, as the younger Harcourt pulled his brother up. He handed William the file, "Case for you. It appears to be a demon hunting people and making deals. You will need holy water, the knife, exorcism…"

"Yeah, yeah, gov'nor, we get it." Michael's harsh British tone cut straight through Arthur's spiel, "Stick 'em once and be back home in time for tea." His maniacal smile would have scared the shit out of you or I had we met him in the street, but Arthur was hardly shaken.

"Just don't cause any mess."

Will's quiet tone, soothed his brother's almost immediate outburst, "It won't be anything we can't clean up."

Arthur shook his head, watching as the two disappeared through the iron gate, and out into the morning sun.


	3. Wir

Lucy Winchester pulled her loose dark hair back into a tight bun and righted the gun in her side holster, shifting impatiently. She had been waiting for the Harcourt brothers for an hour already, standing beside the back gate of the Winchester house. Morgan and Charles had been sent to school in the early hours of the morning, so she had been alone in the house while she stripped her weapons, once, twice, three times, whilst she waited for a call from William. Finally, it came, and she stood outside, waiting for them to show up.

Lucy's parents, James and Elizabeth Harker, had traveled to America on the Frisia, a German steamship, built in Scotland, that had arrived in 1876, when Lucy was nine years old. She still had fond memories of her homeland, but being 28 now, she had established herself in the community and was well respected, especially for her marriage to the well known attorney's son, Arthur Winchester, who was blissfully unaware of the dangerous life that she led. Her parents and her parent's parents before them had been hunters, and as you and I know perfectly well, once you're in that job, there's no getting out.

'Finally', Lucy sighed, as the Riker trundled along the road, Will jumping out to meet her. Michael wolf whistled, "You going to a party, love?"

Lucy shook her head at Michael, a smile playing on her lips, "If I was going to a party, I certainly wouldn't invite you." Her London accent was barely detectable under her polite British tone, "You're a scoundrel and a thief."

Michael stared at her in mock affront, "Well, I never, Miss Lucy. Talking in such a harsh tone with an honest gent like me."

Will tutted, and Lucy raised an eyebrow at him as the trio surveyed their weapons supply in the trunk they carried constantly. They had an arsenal between them, salt rounds, new Colt M1900s with a few Colt Navy Revolvers and half a dozen Light Cavalry Sabers. The new, gleaming silver edge glistened in the sunlight, symbols etched into the shining metal. Lucy would never admit to Arthur that she had taken some of these. In fact, she would never admit to him that she knew that he was a Man of Letters. Lucy closed the lid on the trunk and the three hopped into the Riker.

It didn't take long to get to the house, but long enough for Lucy to field strip their armory twice. Lucy held up her hand to shade herself from the midday sun. Will and Michael jumped out, taking the sabers from the trunk. Will ran one thumb over the incantation, "Are you sure these are gonna work, Miss Lucy?" Lucy smiled at him with a reassuring look, _I'm sure_. Michael slammed the lid on the trunk, throwing a saber to their patron, who caught it with unerring skill. Together, they made their way to the porch.

Will and Michael edged forward, Lucy following close behind them. The file was extensive in it's description of the house, so there was no doubt that they were in the right place. It had told of a demon, who was possessing and destroying people. But there was no visible connection between them. Arthur's looping cursive told of the way in which the demon destroyed the bodies, burning them from the inside out. Lucy shivered; she didn't want to be anywhere near anything that could do that to a person, but wasn't that her job, to be fearless where others were fearful? She tossed her saber to her right hand, the knife that Arthur had given the boys protruding from her pocket.

Something just didn't seem right.

Michael carefully pushed the door open. Will was the first to make his way inside, his eyes wary and alert. She saw in his eyes the same discomfort that must have shone in hers; he could sense it too. Michael was nowhere near as worried. He strode in after his younger brother, but his heavy footsteps did not even make a creak on the ancient floorboards.

It was all just a little too unnerving.

Will took the journey upstairs when the trio finally split. They were greeted in every room by silence. It had wormed its way into every nook and cranny, and where a floorboard should have creaked and groaned under the weight of heavy footsteps, it was merely silent. Where a vase knocked by a careless hand should have screamed and crashed, there was only silence. There was just nothing.

But then it began.

The noise, unlike anything that Michael, or William had ever heard before. It burned, searing through the silence and piercing their ears, and it rendered them completely inert. There was nothing they could do, but hold their hands over their ears and hope that it would stop. But it went on, and Will, driven by the need to protect his brother (perhaps the Harcourts are why our brothers share that trait), pelted down the stairs and straight into Michael, who was stood, still as a statue, at the bottom of the stairs. Will was about to grab his brother, to tell him that they needed to get the hell out of there, when he saw it too.

Now, having only ever seen it once myself, I will try to describe to you what the two brothers saw there, but I fear my words will fall utterly short of the beauty. Imagine you are at a waterfall. Just humor me for a second and imagine, would you? The light catches off every single shimmer of water as it cascades down the luscious cliff into the pristine depths below. Or imagine staring at the heart of the sun, and not being able to look away. Without all the pain that would cause. And the lasting eye damage. Never mind, let's just stick with the waterfall.

If you asked them about the experience today, were the Harcourts still alive, they would tell you that it was as terrifying as it was beautiful. So much power, so much energy. But in a second, it was gone.

In the place of this light, stood a man, no taller than Will (and Will was not particularly tall, I can assure you). His grey eyes pierced the Harcourts gold ones, and they seemed as if they could see into the very soul of the beholder. His hair, by contrast, was a mellow blonde. Though, perhaps what drew the attention of the beholders the most was that he was stark naked.

Yes, stark naked. In the middle of an abandoned house. And it was quite a sight, I can tell you that. Especially when he pulled a short silver blade from thin air.

But they weren't afraid (cause having chased wendigos, vampires, werewolves, shtriga, ghosts and a thousand other things, you'd think they'd be used to the unexpected by now).

Michael and William righted their sabers, preparing for the fight that they knew was almost inevitable.

Almost.

Of course, it was that point at which Lucy would enter the scene. Arguably, she had the better view of the man in question having been behind him in the 'kitchen' when the house started to shake. She held her sword up high, years of experience hunting telling her to get the hell out while she still had the chance. But her boys were going to fight, so she wasn't going anywhere either. Just as she swung it, the blade was caught by a gentle hand, and now those piercing eyes were fixed on her. There was a flicker in them, something indiscernible, something almost like...

Recognition.

The same light that had flooded the room only seconds before had reappeared, and it infused Lucy in a warm glow. It felt like flying. Then floating. Then falling.

And then there was nothing.

But dark.

And cold.

And red.

And pain.

And a single name, a broken cry in the darkness.

Remiel.


	4. Mehr

It was a bright winter's day. He could feel. The wind on the skin, the heat of the midwinter sun, the rise and fall of his vessel's chest as breath was drawn in and expelled.

It was overwhelming. The sounds, the scents, the heat of it all was bothering him more than he could ever have imagined. The water lapping onto the brink of a long-dried riverbed and the almost constant rustling of the trees as the wind drew its bony fingers through their tousled leaves, stirred his thoughts as they danced around his head.

And it was beautiful. In fact, it was just as wonderful as his older brothers had told him, when they returned from their mission. Of course, their praise of their Father's creation was often mixed with insults for the humans, but he very rarely paid any attention to their misgivings and focused on their descriptions of the beauty of Earth. He had been on Earth only once before, at his Father's request, to build a giant wall. Of course, humans took credit for the idea immediately, but it gave him a chance to observe his Father's creation alone. He switched off angel radio and stood at the edge of a precipice gazing out over the Highlands. It was beautiful, just as his brothers had described, untouched by humanity. He doubted that it would be so now.

It was Gabriel and Castiel who had entertained his ramblings the most. In fact, he would spend many a day with the angel of Thursday, listening to Castiel telling him about the wonders of Earth, whilst they strolled through the many heavens that humanity managed to dream of, passing unmarked and unnoticed.

It was Castiel who had suggested that he be allowed to come to Earth again. It was allowed, but only under the supervision of another, older, angel. Castiel consented, and had quickly found a vessel on Earth, but it had taken him a little longer. He found a vessel, but it was badly damaged, too damaged to be saved. He jumped from body to body, but none of them could hold him for long enough. His skin would boil, vaporizing his clothing and coloring the building around him in charred black. Then they came. Hunters, with blades and silent footsteps, and he felt when she invaded his presence. His vessel.

His vessel. He looked down. Deep brown hair cascaded down a slight frame, stopping just above the waist. Remiel smiled. She was growing fond of this vessel. Her top half was encased in a tight corset, with a bright white shirt covering it, layered in a blue waistcoat and with black breeches. She considered the weapon that she held in her hand. It was a long sword, silver and recently sharpened. The lettering was what drew her eye. It was crude and inherently human, but it was effective. Fuelled by curiosity, Remiel held the blade to her skin. It pierced the soft flesh of her hand, and she curiously probed the dull ache that came with the sudden rush of blood. She took it off the bleeding scratch (for that was all that it was) and examined the trace of blood that was slowly making its way towards the hilt of the saber. It was entrancing, how humans could seem to know nothing about what angels were and were completely oblivious to their Father's work, but could still fashion weapons to fight them.

Remiel healed the small incision on her hand and inserted the blade into the sheath that her vessel carried at her side. She wasn't going to hang onto this vessel for long, just long enough to complete her mission. She stepped closer to the lake, casting a cautious glance at the house that was now just a mere pinprick in the distance. Perhaps she should return to her vessel's company, as not to draw suspicion to her presence. She had left the two others in the house, unconscious from the blast of light that had erupted when Remiel had found her vessel. She wasn't afraid of them; although they had weapons that could harm her, it was obvious that they were completely oblivious as to what they had discovered (because she was positive that these humans did not know of the existence of angels) and she had to wait for Castiel.

She looked back to the house once again. It was probably the wisest choice. Then again, when had anything she had done been considered wise.

 _Are you ready to do what must be done, Remiel?_

Was she ready? Honestly, no, she wanted to stand there for a little while longer, absorbed in her own thoughts, marveling at the beauty that was there, right in front of her. She wanted to touch everything and lose herself in the wonder of it all. But the voice broke through the babble that was a constant reminder of who she was, and why she was really here. Not that she wasn't grateful for the presence of this type of communication (it was possible that she could have lost herself on impact without it) but that didn't make it any less irritating.

 _I am ready._

Perhaps she was scared, as she turned back to face the hunters. All I know is, she went back anyways. Remiel returned to the brothers, who were definitely soundly knocked out. Her old vessel was on the floor, gray eyes dull and lifeless. She drew the blade from its sheath once again, pressing the edge against her old vessel's throat; if she was going to convince them of her appearance as this woman, she was going to have to make it at least look plausible.

She approached the younger of the two, cautiously placing a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently.

* * *

Will was dreaming. Funny, that. Shall I tell you what he was dreaming of? William Harcourt was dreaming of rain. Not just American rain, that drove in seven or eight days a month, and was interspersed with days of pure and golden sunshine. He dreamt of English rain. Rain that battered down on slanted rooftops and found its way through every nook and cranny. All consuming rain that soaked even the most innocent bystander right to the bone. It was a wave, drowning everything in its path, and Will was drowning too. Then, there was a hand on his shoulder, pulling him out.

As for Michael, he was dreaming of fire, and it too was all consuming. Unforgiving, unwilling to forget, purging of everything and leaving a nothing that hurt more than the sum of all the fire. It was pain itself and it was unrelenting. It was washing over him, burning through everything that made Michael himself. Searing pain was all he could feel, but a cold hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present day.

* * *

Hello reader, congratulations, you've successfully made it to chapter four and your reward is a little author's note. Most of the characters in this story are OCs, but, as you can tell, Castiel will be in this story at some point. Later. I've had to make a plan for this story. Yay! Um, though I'm still not one hundred percent sure where I'm going with this. I apologize if there is anything in this that you don't agree with. I thought about what Henry said in 8x12, about his father and his father's father being Men of Letters, and this went from there. The first few chapter titles are quite self explanatory, but this one is from a quote that I found about angels. If you have any questions or requests about where you would like this to go, comments are much appreciated. Thank you very much for reading and I hope you liked it.

~ Demon


	5. Als

_25 years later..._

Alina leaned against the bar. Let's be honest, she was far too drunk already. The girl at the bar, Krista, had considered sending her out hours ago, but it was two in the morning, and no matter how desperate this passenger looked, no man was going to stop for her when she was in that state.

The speakeasy was clouded with smoke from burnt-out cigars and fuming cigarette holders. The Monterrey wasn't a very open club, but their patrons were few and far between. I think that's the problem with having hunters and Men of Letters as your patrons.

Alina took another gracious swig of Old Forester, flipping her cigar between careless fingers. She wasn't even really paying attention to the people around her. The hunt? Well, what do you expect. Remember, this is Alina Harcourt we're talking about here. It went well, then bad, then worse. Girl has worse luck than the Winchesters. To be honest, I'm kind of surprised she made it through the first part of this chapter.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, Alina was getting completely, totally and utterly shitfaced. I was there, sat at my own booth with my own glass of Southside, and I probably would have sent her home myself, if it wasn't for the timely intervention of a handsome stranger. Well, stranger to her.

It was two in the morning, and usually one would not expect any more people in the bar at this time of night. He entered the bar, eyes roving around the place, trying to find a place to sit. Every eye was unconsciously trained on him as he entered, except for Alina's. She was still sat at the bar, her back to him. He took the seat next to her, motioning for Krista to get him a drink. She set a gracious measure of Tuxedo #2 on the counter in front of him, pulling a glass up from the shelf underneath the counter.

Krista walked to the door and closed the door, bolting the three bars across it. With it being prohibition season, none of us could afford to be caught in the speakeasy at this time, let alone Krista and her fellow bartenders. Not that any of us minded much if we got caught. The Monterrey was prestigious enough to boast a long list of prosperous patrons, who would gladly bail each other, or their bartenders, out at a moment's notice.

They sat in silence, each drinking their glass. Alina drained hers, but it was soon filled by the stranger, "I'm Morgan."

Alina took one swig from the glass and then set it down with a grimace, "I'm not interested."

Morgan smiled, "Come on, you could at least tell me your name."

Alina looked straight at him, and then laughed humorlessly, "What does it matter to you, Winchester?"

Morgan took another swig, "What gave me away?"

Alina smirked, "The ring, plus the blatant disregard for another person's, let alone a woman's, privacy."

Morgan smiled sadly, turning the deep blue 'W' ring round on his finger "That would be my brother's business, not mine."

Morgan refilled his empty glass, before draining it. He filled it once again.

"Alina."

Morgan smiled, "Well, pleasure to meet you, Alina Harcourt, my name is Morgan Winchester." He took another swig from his glass.

They sat in silence for a moment, each taking in the atmosphere around them. As they were so absorbed in their thought, I decided to scan the room. There were a few regulars in the bar, people that I had seen there before, and in one corner, in a private booth, a young man was trying to get off with Krista. He was making such a noise that even the attentions of both Alina and Morgan were drawn to it. She could not take her eyes off the scene in front of her, but Morgan took one look at the scene before him and rolled his eyes, turning away.

Alina looked back at him, "Is that…"

"Charles? Yes." He ran his hand over his eyes.

Alina stared at him incredulously, "How can he think..."

He looked at her, "I don't know. As to why he does it, I'm pretty sure that he's adopted."

"You say that like it's a cure all."

"It ain't, but if you've got a better explanation for, er, that, then I'm all ears."

Alina looked back at the pair in the booth, "What do your parents say to that?"

Morgan tensed, his expression turned stony and his grip on his glass tensed. Alina blushed, putting a hand on his arm. He looked at it and then into her golden eyes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"It's okay, I'm sorry too." He smiled, "For the record, Henry is trying."

"You know, I never thanked you for my drink."

"You don't need to do that."

"People are wrong about you, Winchester."

"I'd like to think so. Can't say the same for Charles..."

"It's not your brother I'm talking about."

He smiled at her, then called Krista over. She detached herself from Charles' grasp and sauntered over to the younger Winchester, who laid a fifty dollar bill on the table. He stood up from the bar, "I've got a hunt in Lincoln, it's going to be a long drive, but I could do with a partner who isn't drunk off her ass the entire time. If you would like to…"

"Yes." She stood up hurriedly, swaying a little, and picked up her bag from the bar. Over Alina's shoulder, Morgan could see Krista and Charles retreating out of the back door. Morgan smiled inwardly - that meant that he wouldn't be back for a while - and held his arm out to Alina.

"Shall we?"

Morgan and Alina made their way out of the Monterrey and through the office that occupied the front of the building.

"Morgan! Hey, little brother!"

Morgan stopped, smiling at Alina, "Would you like to go to your car and I'll meet you there?"

"How do you know which one's mine?"

He smiled and turned back to see Charles running up to him, "Do you mind if I take the room tonight?" He glanced at Alina's retreating form, "Or are you using it?"

"Why, ain't you staying with your girlfriend over there?"

Charles looked back at Krista who smiled and waved at him. He ran his hand through his hair, "Well, yeah, but she doesn't want to have to go back to her apartment yet."

"Well, then take her out, there has to be a bar in the tri-state area that you haven't scoped out yet."

"Funny, Morgan, very funny, but I'm afraid there ain't any left Krista and I ain't been to."

"Krista? Any relation to the Harvelle girl you keep going on about?"

"The same. Ain't she a beauty Morgan?"

"I'm going on a hunt Charles. I don't know when I'll be back…"

"Yeah, yeah, go."

"I'll see you around Charles."

With that, the younger Winchester turned away, walking to Alina's car.

Perhaps if they had known that this would be the last time they saw each other, they would have made more of an effort to speak to one another.


	6. Alle

Morning turned to midday, and afternoon arrived and finally the Harcourts returned from their hunt. Arthur sighed; he would never understand either of those boys, or why it would take them twice or three times as long to finish a hunt every time. This was by far the most infuriating, as he had his suspicions over what was really awaiting them at that house. He had been pacing around all day, trying to keep himself occupied, without thinking about what ifs and maybes. Eventually, he'd driven Henry crazy, and the latter had sent him outside to clear his head. That was when he heard the familiar sound of the busted Riker, trundling along.

Will was the only one to step out of it this time, handing Arthur a hand full of notes, some in Will's looping cursive and others in Michael's jumbled scrawl in a neat folder. It seemed that their expedition had been of some success. Will showed him a small smile as he got back into the Riker, heading towards the Harcourts' dive of choice.

Arthur immediately opened the file, searching through the notes, trying to devise from the brothers' scripts what had happened in the house. It seemed that the brothers had gone into the house, which was eerily silent, and had apprehended the culprit, a demon, who appeared in front of the Harcourts in his vessel. They had killed the demon with a slit through the throat, which was shown by the photograph taken by Michael's Kodak that was slotted neatly into the back of the wad of notes.

A demon. Arthur let out a breath that he didn't know he'd been hanging onto. It had been a demon the entire time. But, there was still something that didn't seem right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about the account of the demon's demise didn't quite sit right with him.

Then it dawned on him.

The slit across the throat. That wasn't possible. The demon couldn't have been killed in that house with a slit across the throat. The knife that Arthur had given the boys couldn't have possibly done that; not even the cursed sabers that the Men of Letters kept under lock and key had that power. So, either there was something else that was in that house that killed the demon, or…

Or it was still out there.

He ran over and over the case in his mind as he climbed the steps to his and Henry's office. Those were the only two possibilities. Either something more terrifying than a demon had gone into the house and had killed the demon, or the demon had tricked them, and was still alive. Of course, neither hunter would have bothered to check, and neither would his superiors. Eric and Henry were certainly not going to spend the effort for something that, to them, didn't look suspicious. So, it was up to him.

Why take the chance, though? There was still the possibility that he would turn up at the house, and there would be nothing wrong with what the Harcourts had told them. Worse yet, he could be walking straight into a death trap.

But that didn't make sense in his head either. The whatever-it-was would have twigged that people knew where it was and it would have scarpered. Truly, if he went back to the house now, it would just be to gather clues, to see anything that would lead him to knowing what had happened at the house.

He stopped at the door to their office, peering inside. Henry was nowhere to be seen. Good, his partner would just have tried to stop him. He grabbed his overcoat, which was still on the back of his armchair and headed out of the door. Halfway down the corridor, he stopped. What in the heavens was he doing? It wasn't like he was just going to do some further research for a case, he was going to go and potentially take on a monster himself. The whole point of the Men of Letters was to observe, and to never get our hands dirty. This would be considered an act of rebellion against the Men of Letters' code, everything they stood for.

 _Good._

 _Then maybe they'll get their heads out of their asses._

Arthur smiled at his thought and walked out into the afternoon.

* * *

Remiel was entirely uncomfortable. Soon after she had walked into the Winchester house, it became clear to her that neither Lucy Winchester, nor her husband Arthur (their names were written on the mailbox outside their house) were in any way god-fearing. They were upstanding citizens, clear from the dangerous professions that both had chosen to follow, but they lacked faith.

She ran her hand over the gilt frame of an ornate mirror. Twice Remiel had already been disturbed by the Winchesters' staff, but twice she had managed to stay undercover, as the staff were respectable, and would try as much as possible to keep out of their mistresses' way.

 _Remiel._

His clear voice cut through her train of thought.

 _Castiel, where are you?_

 _Where I am needed._

 _I do not understand, Castiel._

 _You are not meant to. Return to the house, I shall meet you there. Try not to draw suspicion to yourself._

Try not to draw suspicion to yourself. And what was that supposed to mean? Of course, she could not just disappear, certainly not when the staff had seen her in the house. She made her way from the landing, down the stairs, peering into every room she came to. One was clearly a bedroom, but certainly not that of an adult. They had children then. Yes, two boys, Morgan and Charles, those were the names that had been on the acceptance form into a boarding school? Remiel shook her head; she had watched humanity for so long and only through the eyes of Lucy Winchester was she actually beginning to understand them.

She also understood that her brothers were wrong. Humans were not perfect, but they were far from idiotic. They were wonderful. So much more than she had known when she had been studying them from heaven. She understood them at their most basic level now, their desire to do good, and to make a difference in a world that they were only a small part of.

She let the housekeeping see her walk to the door. The portly woman who had watched her whilst she had been in the topmost room of the house (it had the word attic emblazoned on the door?) approached her, "Are you heading out again, Miss Lucy?" Remiel nodded, trying to imitate the voice that she had heard inside of her head, "I shan't be back until later. I am not sure at what time. Do not bother waiting up." With that, Remiel walked out of the Winchester house, leaving a satisfied housekeeper in her wake.


End file.
